Sherlock and Snow
by Darrionn
Summary: Life at 221b Baker Street is turned upside down when a 'friend' of John arrives. A friend with intellect to rival Sherlock's and a personality that will drive him mad. Possibly literally. First fic, OC, no time period... Disclaime!
1. Chapter 1

'Another case solved!'

'Yes indeed. Very observant. Maybe there is hope for you after all.'

Doctor John Watson turned to glare at the man he was walking with. His flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, was tall with pale skin and dark hair. Dressed in his signature dark grey trench coat he was an impressive figure. Even on a night like that one, when he had just participated in a cross-London car chase in the pouring rain, he looked hardly the worse for wear. His hair clung damply to his forehead and his clothes clung to his skin, but John was sure that he had not lost his ability to scare information out of people.

'I have never questioned my inferior intellect. You are, have been and always will be several million times cleverer than me. There's no need to rub it in!'

'Indeed not. But would you deny me that opportunity?' John threw another glare in Sherlock's direction, but it was only half hearted. Holmes was smiling indulgently, as John had known he would be. John too broke into a smile, but only after allowing himself a satisfactory eye roll.

The two men were in high spirits as they walked along Allsop Place towards their home; 221b Baker Street. The half-hour city sprint at gun point had left them full of adrenaline, and catching a serial killer had been the icing on the cake. Another case solved, as John had said. For the rest of this evening they would remain good humoured, and John knew that there would be laughter at 221b Baker Street. However, he also knew that Sherlock had no other cases at the moment, and therefore that the cheerfulness wouldn't continue for long.

He would just have to enjoy the good atmosphere while it lasted.

'You did really good tonight, Sherlock. Well done!' He clapped his friend on the shoulder.

'I 'did good', did I John? Glad you think so.' Sherlock said whilst grinning and jokingly wiping down his coat sleeve. Sherlock would never stop pointing out John's many grammatical flaws. It was too deeply ingrained. However, recently John had started to notice an air of fondness in his friends tone. He wondered if Sherlock was beginning to count him as a friend. And quickly dismissed the thought. Sherlock was... well... Sherlock. And Sherlock didn't have friends. Or at least he'd never admit that he did.

'John,' said Sherlock, his tone disturbing John's musings, 'Do you know the owner of that motorbike?'

'Motorbike? What motorbi-... Oh. Oh God.' John stood, staring in what Sherlock perceived to be horror at the door to their flat. Propped against the worn black door, and blocking their path into the house, was a large, black and serious looking motorbike. Its handles, Sherlock noted, were digging into the wood in a way that would produce scratches when the bike was removed. He turned towards John, waiting for an answer to his question, and was shocked to find him still staring with rigid shock at the door.

'John? John, are you all right? Stupid question. Why are you not all right?' Sherlock was starting to get slightly worried by his friends trance like stare. Not that John would ever know that. 'Doctor Watson!' Sherlock all but shouted, hoping to jolt at least the military part of John's brain into action.

'What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course, Sherlock. Hello. What was the question?' John continued to stare at the bike, only his mouth moving.

'Who owns the bike?' Sherlock paraphrased. It was obvious that whoever's bike it was had entered their flat. And was still there now.

'I think it would be wise if we were to enter the flat. With fire extinguishers, if at all possible. With all haste.' John turned to look at Sherlock, his gaze conveying the same urgency as his voice. 'Please.'

'Of course John. Let's go.'


	2. Chapter 2

Even on the stairs Sherlock knew something wrong. It wasn't a difficult deduction. Even John would have been able to work out that there was someone in their flat. Not that John, who was still in what appeared to be a state of frightened shock, seemed capable of making even a simple logical inference. It was obvious that whoever was currently sitting on their sofa and listening to modern 'alternative' music at a volume which was sure to be damaging to the persons hearing was known to John. Someone that John was _scared_ of.

Who could it be? Sherlock Holmes was not one to enter unprepared into a room with a possibly dangerous stranger. He had concluded that the stranger was dangerous due to John's apparent fear. Doctor Watson was a soldier, and so not easily spooked. The person's chosen weapon would be fire. Holmes knew that he had a lighter in his pocket, but in this instance he felt that fighting fire with fire would not be the safest path.

'Watson? Who is it?' Sherlock demanded of his companion. Sherlock could have quite easily worked it out, but he felt that on this occasion it would be more advisable to take the quickest route to the answer.

John looked up, towards Sherlock. However, his gaze did not linger on the detective's questioning features. It slid upwards, behind him, up the stairs, to the door of their flat. It froze.

A shaft of light penetrated the stairwell.

Sherlock predicted the next event nanoseconds before it happened.

John viciously shoved Sherlock to one side, into the wall of the thin staircase. Sherlock, who would have flattened himself against the wall anyway, found himself lying uncomfortably on the wooden stairs, three of them digging painfully into his side and ribs. From this vantage point he had an eye level view of John planting his feet firmly on a step, his centre of gravity low and balanced.

And then the sturdy John Watson was sent flying backwards as the mystery intruder launched themselves from the top step with a delighted and high pitched squeal. There was an 'oof' when they collided, which Sherlock perceived to be John, and several more 'oofs' as the pair tumble down the remaining six stairs.

Sherlock persevered in his uncomfortable position in order to peer down to the bottom of the stairwell, where, in a tangle of limbs, lay Doctor John Watson and his young, punkish, female attacker. There was no fire. Holmes got up and dusted off his coat. He was bemused.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen by the time John had managed to disentangle himself from his assailant, with many an angry: 'what on earth was that for?' and: 'you could have killed me!' Figuring, correctly, that Holmes was in the flat, he turned sternly on the short teenage girl and grabbed her by the upper arms.

'Hey!' she cried as she was brutally frog marched up the stairs. 'Jay, wassup!'

He looked at her incredulously. ''Wassup'? Wassup! I'll tell you wassup, _after _having inspected the flat for the damage you have undoubtedly caused.' They were nearing the top of the stairs now, and John could already smell and hear fire, even over the music. It sent cold fear sparking down his spine. He vaguely mused that if the fire was engulfing the flat, or on the sofa, or in the skull, Sherlock might have sorted it out. Then he realised that his assumption required an action on Sherlock's part, and hurried to get up the remaining stairs, intruder in tow.

The girl refused to move and gave him doe-eyes. 'But, Jay... Aren't you pleased to see me?' She sounded genuinely distressed. John Watson looked down at her, and the familiar, hurt-filled gaze touched something, in the back of his mind, which reminded him that he was being an idiot. He noted with resignedeness that his little idiot warning now came in the form of Sherlock's voice. He looked down again.

'Oh, Snow, of course I'm pleased to see you, you oversensitive, pyromaniac fool. Come here.' He released his grip on her arms and she pirouetted round, into him. Having anchored himself to the wall for security, John managed to keep them both standing upright at the top of the stairs. Then he tenderly wrapped his arms around her, as she was doing to him. Her embrace was so familiar, so comforting. It felt like home. He bent down to kiss the top of her head.

'So this is the young girl you've been emailing so frequently, and with such... zest.' The quiet statement would not have been audible over the music unless the person that uttered it was standing right at John's ear.

There was silence, apart from the embracing couple's deep breathing. Oh, and the extortionately loud music and ominously crackling fire.

Sherlock Holmes was not used to being ignored, especially not by John Watson.

'John? John? Doctor Watson!' It was not Sherlock's volume that made John look up, but his tone. Sherlock Holmes never raised his voice. It was when it was at its quietest that it was most forbidding.

It took John a full two seconds of blinking and staring, Sherlock noted without great joy, to conjure up a look of recognition in his face. And it was then a further four seconds before a surprised 'Sherlock!' was uttered.

'Yes, I am Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to meet you.' Sherlock dripped whilst shaking John's hand distastefully. Sherlock gave John a stern look.

'Oh! Oh, yes, of course, err, Sherlock...' John held up a stalling finger in is flatmates face as he tried to pry the girl's arms off himself. Having finally succeeded in his task, and looking rather pleased with himself, John continued, 'Sherlock Holmes, I would be honoured to introduce my... errr... distant relative. Sn... ah, Caitlin. Caitlin Laut.' And then he gestured for the girl, Caitlin, to come forward.

She did, with a confident stride. She was as high as John's shoulder, and therefore did not come anywhere really on Sherlock. However, she was an imposing sight. Clad from head to toe in fitted bikers' leathers with thigh high and obviously bespoke black and purple leather boots covering her legs, she looked older than Sherlock was sure she was. Her hair was waist length and dyed black, but had novel white tips.

'Sherlock Homes,' said Sherlock, proffering his hand in a fashion that indicated that the action bothered him.

Caitlin looked at him expectantly, and then her head cocked to one side in confusion when he said nothing else.

'Yes. You are Sherlock Holmes. Now introduced thrice.' She nodded to herself.

'And you are Caitlin Laut, or 'Snow'. Introduced once.' Sherlock countered.

'I'm John Watson, if that helps,' said John as he turned off the music blasting from the girl's ipod.

'It doesn't. But I like your friend. He's cute.' Smiling, Caitlin stepped forwards, towards said friend, whose hand was still available for being shaken.

Sherlock stood his ground.

Then Caitlin did something which shocked neither of the men in the room but was a totally shocking action nonetheless. She flung her arms around Sherlock's torso and pulled him to her in a warm embrace. Though he was expecting the action, Sherlock froze and stood stiffly as a short, young, female stranger rested her head on his chest and inhaled his scent. He stood stiffly as she pulled him tightly to her, and he stiffened even more as she reached up to stroke his hair.

'Snow,' John cautioned. 'Let him go, now.' He was not sure how Sherlock would react to the intimacy of Snow's touch, and her penetrating gaze.

Neither Snow nor Sherlock appeared to hear him. The girl was too busy gently stroking Sherlock's hair, and the man was too busy breathing deeply and standing stock still.

'Snow.' John's voice was commanding now. She melodramatically flung her head to the side in order to glare at him. He motioned for her to move away. She didn't. John motioned again, with a look on his face that allowed no argument. Snow, who couldn't do anything by halves, threw herself away from Sherlock with such vigour that the young detective swayed backwards and had to flail his arms slightly to keep from falling over.

Caitlin was now around three feet away from him.

'You're unarmed,' she informed him, her brow creased slightly in worry.

'I may not have a knife or a gun, but I can defend myself.' Sherlock replied archly.

'But what if someone did _this_?' And Snow calmly pulled a handgun from a holster just inside her right boot. She pointed it at the detective's head, the barrel almost touching his temple. Her face showed concern for the man she was pointing a gun at, and she obviously thought that her actions would help him in the future.

'If someone did _that,' _Sherlock calmly replied, tilting his head slightly in the direction of the gun so that the barrel did touch is forehead, 'John would do _this_.'

And Doctor John Watson immediately drew his gun and levelled it with the girl he loved.

'And I then do _this_,' came Snow's quick reply, as she undid the safety. She stared at Sherlock as she pressed the loaded gun into his head. She stared at his eyes and at his face and at his clothes and at his hair and at his hands and he stared at her. And privately they deduced things about each other. The first conclusion they each came to was that the other knew that they were making inferences. The seconds ticked by and they learnt more and more about each other.

John, who knew nothing of the exchange of information taking place before his eyes, was starting to get very concerned. He knew from bad experiences that Snow might pull the trigger at any time. Not intending to kill Sherlock, of course, oh no, and when the bad, bad bullet happened to lodge itself inside that amazing brain and kill off all deductions forever she would mourn him like a brother. She was trying to make him safe, to teach him not to go out without a gun. He should never go out unprotected. One never knows when a madwoman will show up at your flat and wave a gun at your head. He would know better next time. Of course, when the bad, bad bullet had embedded itself in his brain, he would have learnt his lesson. He would be safe, in Snow's insane little world at least.

But what could he do? He was powerless. Snow was a sister to him, better than Harry. Better than everyone. Except Sherlock. Maybe. But John Watson would never, could never choose between them.

But what if she killed Sherlock?

Inside, John knew the answer to his question, even before he had asked it. Things would be the same. He would avoid seeing her in the flesh, talk to her for hours online, and always be terrified that one day she might show up on his doorstep, burnt beyond recognition, and die.

If she died, it would kill him too. Because Snow was such a huge part in his life. Because he loved her, albeit like a sister, more than he loved any other person alive.

And she scared him.

'John?' His head snapped up, fully alert instantly. Snow was smiling at him, her weapon no longer pointed at Sherlock. 'Any chance you can stop pointing a gun at me, Jay?' Gently, she slid her hand down the barrel towards his wrist.

'Uh, sure. Yeah, of course. Sorry. God, I'm sorry Snow.' And the gun clattered to the floor as Snow embraced her beloved brother.

Sherlock stood awkwardly a couple of paces away. Without really knowing why, he turned his face away from his flatmate and the... 'distant relative' of said flatmate. He stared out of the window and contemplated being hugged. He quickly came to the conclusion that he was more comfortable with a gun pointed at his head. Which was a shame, because, uncomfortable though the embrace had been, it had also been warm. Pleasantly so.


	4. Chapter 4

The fire, as it turned out, was not on the sofa or in the skull. It was crackling merrily in the hearth, much to John's surprise and elation. He was not too sure what was actually burning, but didn't feel inclined to find out. It was probably the books belonging to Sherlock that make the fireplace their home. In John's opinion, Sherlock had far too many books cluttering up the place. He could afford to lose a few.

The three of them; ex-army doctor, consulting detective and pyromaniac punk, were sitting around the fire. John was in his armchair, talking to Snow. She was sitting as close to the fire as he would let her, and staring with transfixed fascination at the flames. He talked cheerfully, updating her about how Harry was and what he'd been getting up to. She answered his questions fully and asked some in turn, but she did so without animation or emotion. She didn't look at John. She was completely absorbed in the flames. Every so often her hand would, seemingly of its own accord, gravitate toward the blaze, reaching out towards it. A sharp 'Snow!' from John was enough to return the hand to her side, but her eyes never left the crackling fire.

So when Sherlock softly called 'Caitlin', he was almost shocked when her eyes immediately darted up to meet his gaze. John carried on talking to her, having neither heard nor noticed his flatmate.

'Yes?' Caitlin prompted when John's steady stream of mundane chatter had finally petered away.

'Snow. Not derived from Caitlin, is it?' Sherlock held her gaze steadily from his superior position on the sofa.

'Nope,' she confirmed, popping the 'p'. She offered no more information, even when Sherlock's stare turned questioning. With a resigned sigh, he asked;

'So where did it come from, then?'

And suddenly Snow was on her feet, and then only on one foot as she twirled in an expert high-kick directed at John's surprised face. It was the kind of spontaneous combat manoeuvre that John knew to expect, and that Sherlock would soon learn to. John expertly caught Snow's foot an inch before impact, and with a sigh pushed her away. John's weary gesture told Sherlock to anticipate many similar playful fights.

With her foot still pointed aggressively at her relative's face, Snow started to explain. Her tone was teasing. 'It's all this ol' fool's fault. He decided to misinterpret my words-'

'Misinterpret your words! I asked you your name and your said 'Snow'. Don't blame this one on me.'

'I was _five_!'

'You understood the question.'

'I chose not to answer.'

'No, you chose to answer wrongly.'

Another spinning kick was directed at John, and blocked easily. Sherlock was quickly becoming bored of the argument, which had obviously been staged so many times that it was almost scripted. He held up a hand to stop them.

He was ignored.

'You already knew my name! Mother would have told you when she sent you to look after me!'

'No reason to ignore a perfectly reasonable request. It wouldn't have taxed you to say 'Caitlin', before you continued on with your frantically idiotic-

'IDIOTIC! I am not idiotic.'

'You wanted to know if it was going to snow! It was July!'

'I LIKE THE SNOW.'

And with that, the riled teenage drama queen turned and with a flick of her waist length hair flounced out of the room and up the stairs to John's bedroom. The two men heard the door slam. Neither wondered how she knew where it was.

After a few moments of awkward silence, John turned sheepishly towards Sherlock. The consulting detective was reclining on the couch and facing away from the doctor. John had no idea that he was smirking.

'Sherlock?' John encouraged tentatively. 'I'm so sorry about her. Really. She's a bit of a handful. Okay, she's a lot of a handful. But her mind's brilliant, like yours. She's a sister to me, Sherlock.' John's voice, which had started out at a playful tone, had turned pleading.

'I know that. What are you trying to persuade me of?' Sherlock knew that John was 'subtly' asking if the girl could stay. Sherlock also knew why she needed to. Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted her in the flat.

'Look, Sherlock, I know this is really sudden. I know you're not a fan of people-'

'Pah.'

'Snow does this. To me. A lot. Too much. She turns up on the doorstep, or in the house... Actually, it's always in the house. And she stays with me for a while. Because she's got nowhere else to go. Sherlock, right now, that girl has nowhere to go.'

'I know.'

'Of course you do. And you know why. Why do I bother to tell you anything?' John sighed, worn out. He seemed almost defeated. Sherlock rolled over slowly to face his friend. John had his head in his hands. He thinks I'm going to refuse the girl, Sherlock realised with surprise. He thinks I hate company that much. He thinks her past would scare me. Not likely.

'She can stay.' Sherlock's voice was carefully bored sounding.

'What?' John's head shot up.

'You heard me. I'm going to my room. I'm in the middle of a particularly tedious but necessary experiment. 'Snow' will be down in... a few minutes. Wearing one of your shirts, if I'm not mistaken. You should really see to her back.' Then Sherlock turned his back on his flatmate and stalked off to his room.

John couldn't help but draw parallels.


End file.
